


Scars (2019 Remix)

by sinchronicity



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fic Rewrite, Love & Hope & Intimacy, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, ambiguously romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-23 18:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinchronicity/pseuds/sinchronicity
Summary: There are, of course, fundamental distinctions between the Celestial types: a demon is occult and an angel is ethereal. But part of getting to know someone was learning to see them for what they are, and both Aziraphale and Crowley had been on Earth for a very long time.(A loose re-write of a fic originally posted in 2009.)





	Scars (2019 Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> I first read _Good Omens_ in 2009. I loved it, instantly; and I happily scurried off to read fanfic as soon as I finished it. GO fandom was (and remains) important to me because it was, frankly, some of the first fiction I read that challenged me with complex, adult, ideas that I at the time perhaps could not fully grapple with -- but still wanted to explore. I'm grateful for the book and fandom for encouraging me to write and pushing me to grow as a writer. 
> 
> For the past eight months or so I've been trying (and mostly failing) to write a GO fic that encompasses my new perspectives and new headcanons about the book -- to break my writer's block, I decided to try my hand at a smaller task: rewriting an old fic of mine as I would write it now. This is the result! It's...essentially nothing at all like the original fic, tbh, but if you're curious, I've linked the original in the end notes.

Being a Tale of Three Occasions in Which Two Natural Enemies Meet:

**I. [16th century BCE]**

It had been several thousands of years since The Beginning. Plenty of time to get to know a person, or even a demon. From the start Aziraphale had been vaguely aware that there was a representative of Hell stationed indefinitely on Earth much the way that he himself was, but for the first couple hundreds of years he had made something of an attempt to avoid Crawly.

Not that the snake seemed to have any similar impulses. Crawly had come to _ him _, once or twice or thrice, and Aziraphale still wasn’t sure what to make of that, although it was becoming sort of nice, really, to have a constant in his life that otherwise seemed so changeable, so filled with death and loss. 

The first time he’d seen Crawly’s new human body -- Crowley, because he was no longer a serpent -- he hadn’t even recognized him. There were all sorts of excuses for that; he was in a human body himself, and had been on Earth for quite some time, both things which had undoubtedly dulled his Ethereal Senses. But, still -- if Crowley was a Tempter and a Bringer of Darkness, then surely he, Aziraphale, a Principality and a Protector of Humanity, should be able to spot him a mile off.

_ That’s too many capital letters, _* Aziraphale thought to himself. _ I mean, when it’s just me and him, it doesn’t feel like all that is strictly necessary. _

And currently it was indeed just the two of them. They were in a little tent, by a hill. Bugs and small creatures trilled and coo-ed outside. Like the humans that lived around them, Aziraphale and Crowley were drinking wine; unlike the humans, they weren’t going to dance, or sing, or pray. The joyous sound of human survival was there below the animals, though, the thin reedy sound of a flute, a woman’s cool voice over it. 

They’d been sitting and listening for a while, to the sounds of the night. The wine was a little sour, but Aziraphale had bartered for it, properly; and anyway, he’d been trying to use fewer frivolous miracles lately, to live more like the vibrant mortals around him. Crowley hadn’t commented on it yet; he seemed somewhat distracted, or perhaps demons liked that sort of taste. 

Crowley’s robe had fallen open at the top, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop staring at his exposed clavicle, the thin press of the bone under the flesh. He looked so deceivingly _ delicate _ like that, like how any human would look.

Well. Almost.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, suddenly, just to get the demon to raise his head. Crowley did, and his burnt-yellow eyes seemed to flash in the firelight. 

“What?” he said, sounding vaguely annoyed, and Aziraphale thought desperately, is that it? The only sign of difference is an animal’s eyes, not even something -- evil, or ugly?

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said. “I mean. I was just -- looking.” 

Sometimes it was like Crowley knew exactly what he was thinking. The demon smiled wryly at him. “Looking for an external sign of my damnation? I’d’ve thought you knew better, angel.” 

There was something about the way he said ‘angel’, the not-quite-irony of it, that didn’t sit well with Aziraphale. He’d never said anything about it, of course. It was a factual statement, and demons weren’t known for those. But Crowley had never been a particularly compelling liar.**

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said, although in fact he had been. “It doesn’t _ work _ like that.” 

“You want to be _ different _ from me,” Crowley accused, his eyes narrowing. “Well, you _are_. Fundamentally, even. Isn’t that enough?”

Aziraphale frowned, unsure what to say now that he’d been so caught-out.

“Well,” he said, weakly, “I mean -- we _ are _ enemies.” 

“Oh,” said Crowley, and he sighed, tilted his head up to avoid Aziraphale’s eyes. This exposed the unmarred smoothness of his neck, and the dancing light from the fire cupped his severe cheekbones, illuminating the slight flush on his cheeks from the drink. 

There was a moment of silence between them. Then, “Sorry to disappoint,” Crowley said. His mouth was quirked up a little on one side, in the beginnings of a smile, and Aziraphale suddenly felt unsettled, like Crowley had just shifted the precarious balance that existed between them.

“Enemies...that we are,” the demon said. He laughed a little, seemingly to himself, and then leaned forward, pressed his cup up against Aziraphale’s in an approximation of the human custom. “And if you can’t even spot me out,” he continued, “How can you _ ever _ hope to defeat me, eh?”

Aziraphale felt dizzy all of sudden, which was ridiculous -- he wasn’t human, couldn’t get intoxicated to that level without wishing it -- could he? 

“It’s not about defeating,” he said, wanting greatly to impress this on Crowley, “Or -- or winning, or losing -- ”

“Yeah?” said Crowley. He took a long -- inhumanly long -- drink from his wine cup, then reached over near Aziraphale to grasp at the jug to refill it. “Then what _ is _it about, angel? Just wrestling with God in the sand?”

_ I don’t know, _ thought Aziraphale, thought it _ at _ Crowley, like he could hear it. His verbal sparring with Crowley did, sometimes, feel like an open wound; unhealable and festering. But at the same time, he didn’t _ want _ it to close over without a scar. 

“Giving up already?” Crowley said at his pause, his smile like a sharp blade. “But we’ve only just _ begun. _Surely there’s some fight in you yet.”

And indeed there was. Aziraphale frowned, and he remembered his theology, his place in this whole business. They were up late, much of the night; the coals of their fire burning long after all the humans surrounding them had fallen off into sleep. For a very long time, Aziraphale wouldn’t know what to make of the whole affair; but he remembered the gleam of Crowley’s eyes.

*He was correct on that account, at least. Capitalization hadn’t been invented yet.

**Aziraphale, when he thought about it too much, found this worrying. Temptation, he thought, should be based on lies, but with Crowley -- well! He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

**II. [20th century CE]**

Aziraphale was finding this new century rather bracing. It was frightening -- people kept inventing new things, and there was something in the air, almost, a desperate push forward -- technology and social mores and warfare and welfare -- all surging, forwards and backwards and sideways, chaotic and intoxicating. Aziraphale was steadfast in his station, but the world was swirling around him, and he couldn’t deny that. The decade he was in now felt like a moment of peace, and even that couldn’t be relied on -- there was a spark of danger in the air, still. There was rebuilding to be done in London, and her inhabitants carried on despite it all.

Aziraphale rarely drank alone, but he had recently acquired a bottle of Dubbonet from 1914 and, well, it had tempted him so strongly. He hummed a little to himself as he sipped an indulgent glass of it, and it was as enjoyable as he’d expected. He set out a tray of strawberries and sugar -- so _ easy _ to get sugar now that the war was over, what a _ delight _ \-- and settled into his favorite armchair. 

When the knock on the door came, he grinned to himself -- he _ knew _ it was his drinking partner, not some too-persistent customer. He opened the door, expectantly, and the tall man strode in.

Crowley looked like any young man returned to London after traveling or fighting abroad -- and he _ had _ been away, who knows what he’d got up to -- his hair windswept, his eyes wild and flashing as he removed his sunglasses and hung them from his open collar. He wasn’t wearing a tie, looked very loose, and a little dangerous.

“Hullo, Aziraphale,” he said. “Good to see _ this _ place is still standing.” 

“Well, of course!” Aziraphale said, feeling more facetious than usual. “Miraculous, isn’t it?”

It was the sort of joke that Crowley would usually make, and the demon let out a startled laugh as he sauntered through Aziraphale’s shop, not a glance spared for any of his merchandise. It had been quite some time since he’d last been there, in human years, but seeing as neither of them were human, it was clear that he remembered it all quite keenly. 

Aziraphale’s couch was his target destination, apparently. Crowley sat on it, and sighed. “It’s funny, angel,” he said lightly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you _ enjoyed _ the war.” 

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale said, aghast -- and that was true. The atrocities were such that he genuinely couldn’t bear to think of them; Aziraphale may not have been Heaven’s Employee of the Month but he had a proper Principality’s love for humanity, and it ached that he couldn’t protect them, in a broad sense. In a shorter, smaller sense, however, he’d also seen resistance gangs and alliances and angry people in the streets, and above all, _ perseverance _. Survival was miraculous indeed, after all.

“It’s just,” he said to Crowley, unsure how to express the chaos of emotions within him -- did Crowley even have the capacity to comprehend them all? Perhaps that was rude to think, but -- well, he wondered. 

“It’s just that there’s something in the air,” he said, repeating his own earlier thoughts. “Do you know what I mean? The humans, they’re so busy --” 

Crowley cut him off with a laugh, and it sounded cruel. “Something in the air? Yeah, bomb residue, probably. Horrible little things _ they’re _ turning out to be, eh? Humanity!”

He fell back, bodily and extravagantly, onto the cushions of Aziraphale’s couch. Aziraphale didn’t protest, being accustomed to such antics at this point. And Crowley’s words were more pressing. They were morbid, and he wanted to dispute them, but he was finding that a difficult task.

Crowley kicked his long legs up onto Aziraphale’s antique side-table, the heels of his shoes landing with too-sharp sounds. 

“And you know the best part?” Crowley stretched his arms up, spreading himself with ease into all of Aziraphale’s space. “The _ best _ part is, I didn’t even have to do anything. And neither did anyone else. As always, they came up with everything all on their own, in their little twisted minds. Said, ‘fuck God’s plan, and fuck Heaven and Hell too, I’m gonna make everything _ miserable _while I’m still alive --”

Crowley rarely blasphemed so openly, and his clear agitation was so discomfiting that Aziraphale found himself looking for some reason to shift their conversation; finding none, he poured Crowley a glass of the Dubbonet. Crowley tasted the wine with his tongue, but he wasn’t as distracted as Aziraphale had hoped, just gripped the glass between his hands and continued. 

“And I know that you’re supposed to see the best in everyone, angel, but do you really? I mean, how many people have you actually let in here in the last week, huh? You don’t want to admit it, but you know just as well as I do that they’re hopelessly corrupt and cruel.”

“I don’t know that!” Aziraphale protested -- and that was true, too. He’d seen such wonderful displays of selflessness and kindness and love, how could Crowley say that?*

Crowley paused then, to finally take a proper drink of his wine, and his eyes were hidden by shadow but Aziraphale suspected that they would look angry if revealed. 

“I wouldn’t have thought you so foolish,” Crowley said, the quiet softness of his voice not hiding the weight of what he said. 

Aziraphale found himself offended, and didn’t know what to do with that. It had been a long, long time since Crowley had brought up such feelings within him, and it was disconcerting, off-putting -- if Crowley couldn’t understand, who could? He looked, steadily, at the man across from him, at his loose body language that concealed the tenseness that Aziraphale knew to be within him.

“Don’t condescend to me,” Aziraphale said, sharply. “Just because you’ve _ decided _ not to see the good in humanity doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And you call _ me _ a fool? When you’re just looking away?” He laughed, although it was a little forced. “ _ That’s _absurdity, my dear boy.” 

Crowley bristled, but not at what Aziraphale had expected him to. “‘_Dear boy?’_Guh! Don’t you go using terms of endearment on _ me _ , angel. I’m not --” Crowley blustered for a moment, seemingly looking for appropriate words. “See! Your condescension even extends to _ me_. I’m not _ beneath _ you --”

“_Crowley_ \--” Aziraphale said. He hadn’t realized Crowley would be insecure about something like that. Surely demons shouldn’t be insecure about anything? But then, Crowley wasn’t exactly The Adversary.

“Of course I don’t think you’re _ beneath _ me,” Aziraphale said. He swallowed the second ‘my dear’ that nearly came with it. “Our roles are just different, that’s all. And -- that’s what stops you from seeing it like I do...” 

It was Crowley who’d first introduced him to the idea of their different-but-equally-necessary roles, like they were chess pieces in an over-complicated game. This was back when he was still going by Crawly, even. Aziraphale’d had quite a bit of time to think about it. 

“Uh huh,” Crowley said, skeptically, and Aziraphale felt uncomfortable doubt creep up his spine. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe what he was saying, it was more that he didn’t always, well…_ feel _it. And down here on Earth, amongst these lovely creations of God, it was difficult not to act on, and react to, one’s feelings.

“I wish you wouldn’t see through me so easily,” Aziraphale murmured. “You old serpent.” He meant that the same way that Crowley had always meant ‘angel’ -- as a fact.

“Yeah? It’s part of the -- you know --” Crowley waved a hand in front of his now wine-flushed face. “Uh. Job description. Got to _ get _ people to tempt them.” 

“Glad to know you have me grouped in with all of humanity, then!” Aziraphale said. He said it as a joke, but Crowley just glowered at him, sinking down further into the couch.

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley was pouting, which meant he’d probably been genuinely hurt by some part of Aziraphale’s speech. It had taken him an awfully long time to understand Crowley’s reactions like that, but it was the 20th century now, and things seemed to be moving awfully fast.** 

He felt badly about hurting Crowley -- or at least, being party to his hurt. He knew him well enough to understand that there was already something going on with him, that their conversation had exacerbated. But it was still strange how fragile Crowley was, sometimes, and Aziraphale felt guilty despite himself. 

Yes, Crowley _ was _ a demon, and therefore The Enemy and all that, but it _ felt _ wrong. Aziraphale had realized recently*** that it pleased him to make Crowley happy, that their moods often were reflected in the other’s. He didn’t know what to make of that, morally speaking, but at his heart Aziraphale was an indulgent person; he liked wine, and tobacco, and new foods -- and he wanted desperately that the man across from him, who was glaring with narrowed yellow eyes at his wine glass, would forgive him. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, into the contemplative silence, and it made Crowley look up sharply. “Please, don’t be silly. I’m calling you that because it’s how I talk and because, well, I _ like _ you. And why shouldn’t I? I mean, you’re terrible, of course. But we get on well enough, don’t we? After all this time!” 

Aziraphale let the words sit for a moment. If it didn’t go over well, he could probably pass it off as a moment of drunken emotionality. Even if he didn’t feel particularly intoxicated.

But Crowley just stared at him for a moment, and then he threw back his head and laughed. His whole body shook with it, and some of the wine sloshed from his glass in his joviality. Aziraphale watched the red liquid drip down his knuckles. 

“Damn!” Crowley said. “Angel!” His eyes were dancing, and Aziraphale grinned at him and laughed a little, too. 

“Well, I’ll be_ blessed_,” Crowley said, smiling. “So, you admit it. Well, I can’t say I don’t like you, too. We’ve had some times, eh? Nearly 6000 years. And who else would I drink with?” 

“Who else indeed?” Aziraphale said, happily, and there it was -- their shared mood, bolstered, the pleasant feeling of -- well. It felt almost like a job well-done; _ his _ job, that is; a blessing. 

It couldn’t be, of course. This wasn’t what Aziraphale was put on Earth to do. But it felt -- it _ felt _ warm, and pleasant, and it sat nicely on his chest. 

“Stay there, my dear,” Aziraphale said, letting a little of that warmth into his voice. “I’m going to go get the brandy.”

“Ooh,” grinned Crowley, “the brandy! What’s the occasion?”

_ You are, _ Aziraphale thought, but he didn’t say it. He _ couldn’t _ quite say it, yet.

*It was easy. Lots of people were saying it.

**_Probably someone’s prophecies were going to start coming true any day now_, he thought. He had no idea how right he was.

***Several hundred years ago.

**III. [Several weeks into The Rest of Their Lives]**

It seemed, for a while there, like the world was going to end. After all, they had spent whole _ years _ waiting for the seas to turn red and the Beasts of Earth and Sea to walk the streets, or whatever it was that was supposed to happen.*

But then, it didn’t. End, that is. The World carried on in its traditional fashion, and Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting, as per usual, on a park bench. They’d been there so _ often _ since the Apoca-wasn’t, and Crowley had his arm draped over the top of the bench, his hand settling lightly over Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“I’m just _ saying_,” Crowley was saying, passionately. “It’s only _ natural _ to wonder what comes next.” 

“Well, maybe, my dear boy, but what _ good _ is it? We’ve been over this already, anyway. It’s _ ineffable_.” 

“Oh, don’t bloody _ say _ that again,” Crowley snapped at him. It came out meaner than he had intended, and he let go of Aziraphale’s shoulder to turn bodily on the bench, so that their knees were pressing together. He wasn’t angry at _ Aziraphale_. 

“You know it’s not _ enough _ for me to hear that ‘it’s ineffable’. If that sort of explanation were enough, I wouldn’t have fallen.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “I suspect it’s rather more complicated than that,” he said. 

“_You_ would,” Crowley said. Suddenly he felt terribly lonely, and a little scared. He reached over and took Aziraphale’s hand, like he had when the world was ending. It was a pleasant hand, warm and soft. He hadn’t had time to appreciate it before.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand back. Gently, the angel reached over and pulled at Crowley’s shoulder until he was pressed up closed against him.

“You think too much,” Aziraphale said, kindly. With his free hand he softly touched the back of Crowley’s head, fingers carding through his hair as he guided him into place, so that his face was pressed into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck.

It was a sunny and moderate day, and no-one was looking at them, not even Heaven or Hell. 

“It’s my _ job _,” Crowley said, gloomily, into the folds of Aziraphale’s jacket. “To -- ask questions. Reveal ugly truths. To _ contemplate _.”

Aziraphale hummed a little to himself. “I think that’s everyone’s job, darling,” he said. 

“What’re you going to say next -- that we’re all part of some Great Cosmic Puzzle?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. He’d really had _ quite _ a long time to think about these things, but that didn’t mean he’d come to any solid conclusions.***

Crowley lifted his head to look at the angel, and Aziraphale squeezed their joined hands again. 

“That’s all I _ mean _ by ineffable. Sometimes you have to be all right with not knowing. And besides,” he said. “Isn’t that what _ you’re _ always saying? That we’re of the same stock.”

Well, Crowley thought, they _ were _. It was only a few weeks ago that their wings had unfurled, righteous, against twin representations of Good and Evil -- or of the Loyal and the Fallen, maybe -- and Crowley had found a feather tucked into his suit and couldn’t tell if it was his, or Aziraphale’s.

“I think it’s up to us, now, to decide what we want to do,” Aziraphale was saying. “That’s what this _ means_. And the humans, too. It’s what Adam has given us.”

“Free will?” Crowley said, “For angels and demons? We really _ have _gone native.” He let his head rest against Aziraphale, and closed his eyes. The sun felt nice on his borrowed-human body. 

Aziraphale laughed a little at that. He felt more _ free _ than he had in a long time; that was the gift that Adam had given _ him, _ specifically. 

“We have, haven’t we?” he said, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. The feeling of all-of-this was too strong, and he had to express it physically. Crowley smiled at him, and Aziraphale, in a sudden impulse to see his eyes, gently plucked his glasses off of his nose. 

Yellow eyes blinked up at him, slow and lazy in the afternoon sun, and Aziraphale thought of a time when that foreign animal likeness had been threatening and strange. An awfully long time ago that was, now. 

“Hello, Crowley,” he said; even though both of them knew that he’d been seeing Crowley -- properly -- for quite some time. 

“‘Lo, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, half-asleep in the warmth of Earth’s, humanity’s, protection.

_ It’s going to be alright, isn’t it? _Aziraphale thought. Perhaps thinking it would make it real. That did seem Adam’s style, after all. Magic, and prayer, all tied up in one. 

He ran his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand. Whatever it was -- whatever was going to happen, to them and to the world -- at the very least he knew that much: they could face it together. Two beings -- occult, ethereal, _ celestial, _whatever -- the two of them was certainly still better, more fair, than one, was it not? 

“You know,” he said, voicing the thought aloud for the power that might have, “I think maybe this has all been for the best, this...failed Armageddon.” Perhaps it was foolish and cocky, to say that, but -- “I mean, I don’t know everything, but --”

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Crowley muttered against him, clearly most of the way to sleep already. “You _ think _you know, because of course you do.” 

Crowley brought their still-joined hands up in between them, biting lightly, playfully, animalistically-or-demonically at Aziraphale’s knuckles. He sealed the contact with a press of lips, another gentle kiss between them. “But I guess we’ll see, eh? At the same time as the rest of this lot.” By that he meant the Earth.

“That’s not so bad,” Aziraphale said, smiling. His free hand rubbed a finger over Crowley’s temple, tempting the tempter into stillness and rest. “They’re God’s chosen ones, after all.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and the both of them sat in the sunlight, and thought about what it might mean that they were both still there, sitting bodily, physically, amongst God’s favored beings.

_ Of course, _ Aziraphale thought dazedly, _ we really will never truly know -- _ but that was alright, too, wasn’t it? With his fingertips against Crowley’s forehead, brushing over the arch of his eyebrows -- it certainly _ felt _hopeful. And -- what else could he know?

(The nightingale had already sung its tune; there were to be no more small but symbolic miracles. But it was meaningful indeed that Aziraphale and Crowley were left there, unattended and unwatched; given the space to figure it out -- the space that all of humanity was given, the chances and second chances to live up to the hard task of living, surviving, thriving.)

(An Angel and a Demon; enemies, of course, but also -- well. Who’s to say? Life’s what one makes of it.)

*Crowley had never actually sat down and read John’s 'Revelations'. He didn’t want to _know._ Aziraphale had, of course, but he often got it mixed up with some of the other books of prophecy. And only God knew what would _actually_ happen, anyway.**

**Although, secretly, Aziraphale thought that the seas turning red with blood did sort of seem like Their style.

***He was starting to suspect that this was, in fact, the point.

**Author's Note:**

> The original fic that inspired this is my own fic ['Scars'](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5280330/1/Scars). (If you do give the fic a look, pls do me the favor of remembering that I was very young when I wrote it, lol.)
> 
> The new story I've written here may not delve as deep into the my own thoughts and interpretations as I'd like, and there's parts of it I'm still iffy about -- but I'm posting it because, once again, _Good Omens_ has forced me to contemplate my own strengths and limitations as a writer. I've grown a lot, and I hope I continue to do so, so that maybe I can write something _ really _ good in another decade or so, hah.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
